


John Watson, Christmas elf - Part 2

by dogandmonkeyshow



Series: Unforgivable Things universe miscellany [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Eve, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 14:09:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8984002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogandmonkeyshow/pseuds/dogandmonkeyshow
Summary: Everyone gathers for the Christmas Eve party, at which revenge, poison, radiography as a career, incestuous sibling marriage, and the poetry of Philip Larkin are discussed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> As with Part 1, no knowledge of my Unforgivable Things universe is necessary for being able to follow the frolics within, regardless the tagging.

_...continued from[Part 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8866192)_

Sherlock seemed at that moment to come to a realisation. Aghast, he spun around to face John. “What have you done?”

“Uh, tried to have a happy Christmas. Maybe.”

“What?”

The doorbell rang in a peremptory manner; John could feel the telling blend of impatience and hesitation radiating through the wall. “I'll leave you to get that, then,” John replied with an impish grin. Leaving Sherlock to fume at the door, John scampered up the stairs to help Mrs Hudson finish laying out the nibbles.

“Oh, for God's sake, what are _you_ doing here?” wafted up the staircase a few seconds later and John shared a laugh with Mrs Hudson. It looked as though the evening was off to a flying start.

John heard footsteps on the stairs and turned, expecting to see Mycroft, but instead it was Christina Martin standing in the doorway. It was a strange but not unwelcome flashback to the spring, when she'd hired Sherlock to investigate a murder. John's surprise must have shown on his face, for she cocked an eyebrow at him in greeting. “Mycroft and Sherlock are having a bit of a staring contest downstairs.” She carried a bottle of wine in each hand and held them out as she entered the room. “I convinced him to crack open the vault for the occasion.”

Mrs Hudson peered at a label. “Oh, bubbly, lovely!”

“Happy Christmas John, Mrs Hudson.” Appearing in the doorway, hands in his trouser pockets, Mycroft was looking pleased with himself. It was obvious he'd prevailed in whatever intellectual roughhousing he and Sherlock had engaged in as Mycroft's admission fee for entering the house.

For the first time in ages, the sight of the man didn't cause John's trigger finger to start itching, which he took as a good omen for the evening. He couldn't help wondering why Mycroft had brought Christina Martin, though. Was this him telling Sherlock that they were dating? John didn't think it likely. Perhaps she was there to referee between the brothers or watch Mycroft's back, seeing as the posh PA wasn't there. 

“John, hi.”

He turned from hanging up Christina's coat to see Molly standing in front of him, holding hands with the most—the only word that came to mind was _hobbit-y_ -looking man John had ever seen: short, bearded, wild hair, big smile. He definitely looked like someone who might have hair on the tops of his feet.

“Hi there. Merry Christmas.” John exercised his host's prerogative and give her a quick peck on the cheek, then stuck out his hand to her friend. “John, hi.”

“Dan.” John tried to hide his surprise at the Australian accent, but obviously failed. Dan only laughed and John instantly liked him, and not just for Molly's beaming face as she gazed at her new boyfriend.

John glanced to the kitchen. “I'm not sure we have any beer in the fridge—”

Dan laughed again. “No worries, mate. I've lived here long enough to be used to warm beer.”

“And here you are.”

A hand appeared holding out said bottle. “Cheers, mate,” Dan replied.

“Hey, Greg, didn't see you sneak in,” John said. “You made it, good.”

Greg held up his own bottle of beer. “Yeah, finally.” He sent a world-weary glance across the room to Sherlock. “Someone didn't want to leave the office until he'd solved it. Then shared his copious opinions on the original casework.”

John chortled as Sherlock approached.

“If you'd had a schedule you should have called me earlier. Oh, Mike's here,” Sherlock added, distracted by the growing crowd.

Sherlock had, after his initial snit, apparently decided to get into the spirit of things and strode across the room to greet Mike and his wife, Patricia.

As Molly introduced Dan to Greg and the three of them chatted, John gave the room and its occupants a once-over. Everyone he'd invited was there, all the people he'd wanted to spend the evening with (and one he could have done without). Everywhere he looked he saw people settling in, talking, and he felt a sudden rightness with the world. This was _exactly_ what he'd wanted when the idea of the party had come to him.

He heard a distinctive “pop” behind him and turned to see a mischievous-looking Christina hold up a bottle of champagne in one hand and a pair of glasses in the other. “Might as well start with the good stuff. Wouldn't want it to get warm, now, would we?” she said to Mycroft, who rolled his eyes, though John sensed it was purely for show. 

Christina poured out and handed a glass to a startled-looking Molly, then one to Mrs Hudson. “Oh, thank you, dear,” she said as Christina held out her hand to Mycroft. “Demoted to assistant sommelier,” he muttered as he slid two more glasses into her hand, and she gave him a smile that had John reconsidering his views on the nature of their relationship. To John's surprise, Mycroft ferried glasses from the kitchen to Christina, then onwards to everyone else. He hoped Mycroft wasn't going to bore them all with a toast, but that didn't happen. In a couple of minutes everyone had a glass, and the wine and the close quarters conspired to give the room a happy hum of chatter. Sherlock and Mycroft were avoiding each other, but the room was crowded enough that it wasn't noticeable unless you looked for it.

John didn't have to spend much time “hosting”. He just made sure everyone had been properly introduced to those they didn't already know, pointed them at the food and drink, and let them get on with enjoying themselves. He allowed himself to float along on the tide of conversation and general good cheer, flitting from one group to another.

To his surprise, Greg and Christina seemed to hit it off. Curious, John sidled over to the corner of the sitting room where they stood in animated conversation, and eavesdropped as he pretended to referee a good-natured argument between Sherlock and Mike about poisons that mimicked the effects of anaphylaxis. 

“So, you and Mycroft, you're—dating?” Greg asked and John sent him a mental valediction for broaching the subject no one else in the room had had the balls to when she'd appeared in their circle eight months ago.

“I don't think the term 'date' is exactly accurate. Perhaps 'buffer'.” John watched both Greg and Christina glance out of the corners of their respective eyes, and in perfect unison, flick between Sherlock and Mycroft, standing at opposite ends of the room.

“How do you know them?” Greg asked her. A hint of a bemused smile briefly appeared on her face as she seemed to realise Greg was playing the “We're going to pretend we know nothing about each other because Mycroft isn't supposed to tell anyone anything” game.

“I hired Sherlock to investigate the murder of a friend earlier this year. And Mycroft and I met at Oxford. Twenty-three, no, twenty-four years ago now.” Greg didn't reply other than to nod and John thought he saw what might be interest and a hint of speculation in his eyes. John gave his friend another mental salute; anyone Mycroft thought worthy of his friendship was likely to be an interesting (if not downright terrifying) challenge.

The two of them seemed to be getting on well enough now they'd found common ground to discuss: the challenge of being friends with a Holmes. So John made his way to join Sherlock, who had abandoned the Stamfords to Mrs Hudson, and was currently fending off Molly's attempts to convince him to bring out his violin and play something.

“Oh come on; you know you want to,” John teased and Sherlock replied with a mock glare. “I won't even make you wear the antlers,” John added as further incentive.

“I burned them two years ago anyway,” Sherlock replied with a smirk. 

“Those were mine, you know,” Mrs Hudson interjected, breaking off her debate with Patricia Stamford about whether or not it was possible to put too much brandy in mincemeat. “I was wondering where they'd got to.”

“I needed the stuffing for an experiment.” Sherlock sounded almost defensive at Mrs Hudson thinking she might have first call on her own property.

Eventually, Molly prevailed and when Sherlock took out his violin, John began to drift around the room again. He picked up some empty glasses and took them to the kitchen, where Mycroft was staring at the wall toward Sherlock's bedroom. John thought maybe Mycroft was wondering about what drugs Sherlock might have stashed in there. John admitted to himself that there probably were some, but he hadn't seen any obvious signs of Sherlock using since the aborted flight to Kosovo in January.

John had no idea what to say to Mycroft. It was obvious from the man's stiff shoulders that he knew John was there, puttering away behind him. John conceded that perhaps Mycroft was at a loss for words, as well, though he found it difficult to believe. Eventually, Mycroft turned to face him and John speculated his bland expression was costing him more of an effort than it usually did.

“He's been well?”

That wasn't exactly the opening John had been expecting, but he guessed that Mycroft wasn't in the mood for a confrontation about Mary, either. Not in these circumstances and in this company.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Good.”

John wondered why Mycroft even had to ask; he assumed the overbearing surveillance of their lives had continued ever since Sherlock's return. Though, after witnessing Mycroft downright flummoxed only a few days before, John was less surprised to see genuine discomfort on the man's face.

“I've had the surveillance within the flat removed.”

“You're still having him followed, though.”

“Only tracked.” At John's scowl, Mycroft added, “You know I must, John. For his own safety—”

“Why remove the surveillance in here, then? Early 40th birthday present?” John instantly regretted the sarcasm of his last question, but Mycroft seemed to accept John's disdain as a given and wasn't fazed by it. “You know, you could find all this out for yourself if you actually talked to him. I mean, you haven't got within five feet of him all night.”

“I'll talk to him, never fear. There is something I wish to discuss with him, but it would best to wait until the crowd has thinned a bit.”

“Is that the only reason you came? To talk shop?”

“Of course not.” Mycroft paused and his expression became contemplative. John waited for the metaphorical other shoe to drop, but Mycroft decided to hang onto it. The two of them stared across the kitchen table at each other, both apparently waiting for the other to bring some resolution to the conversation. 

John grew bored of that after about two and a half seconds. “Yeah, okay.” He headed back to the sitting room.

As he approached Sherlock standing in the middle of the room with Molly and Dan, John sensed there was something wrong. Sherlock was hovering almost menacingly over the much-shorter Dan (and John knew just how annoying that could be); Molly looked a little unsure of how to respond. John wondered if he was going to have to intervene, though Dan appeared remarkably sanguine about Sherlock's behaviour.

“What do you do at the hospital?” Sherlock asked down at Dan.

“I'm a radiography technician.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why radiography? Instead of, say, IT?”

Dan laughed and John knew no intervention was going to be required. “Because I like people more than machines.” After waiting a beat, he added, “And I don't have 'I'm a class-A nutter who's in love with my arch-enemy' tattooed across my forehead.”

 _Two points to Dan_ , John thought, as he joined Molly in a laugh.

“Touché,” Sherlock muttered, but with better grace than John would have expected.

“No, it's tattooed across his arse,” Molly added, then looked shocked that the words had escaped from her brain and out her mouth. She glanced down at the glass in her hand. “What did she put in this champagne?”

“Trust Mycroft's girlfriend to put roofies in the wine. Birds of a feather—” Sherlock replied as he glanced over to where Christina and Mycroft were talking to Mrs Hudson. 

“Is she really?” Molly looked appalled, probably at the notion of _anyone_ thinking of Mycroft that way, John assumed.

“Nope,” he replied.

“How to do you know?” Sherlock demanded, incensed at the idea that someone might know something about Mycroft that he hadn't deduced for himself already.

“Greg asked her and she said no.”

As one, Sherlock, John, Molly and Dan slowly turned to watch Christina explaining something to Mrs Hudson that apparently required a sort of windmilling motion with her hands, and Mycroft sporadically leaning back out of striking range.

“Really,” Sherlock mumbled and John could see the wheels and gears in his mind start to spin up towards jet engine velocity.

“I can't imagine anyone—I mean—really?” Molly whispered to Sherlock, who just replied with a indeterminate nasal sound.

For a few seconds the four of them, like a mute Greek chorus, watched Mycroft attempting to be avuncular to Mrs Hudson. She didn't appear much impressed, but then, she'd had at least two glasses of champagne that John had seen.

Dan leant over to John and asked quietly, “Why do we care if they're dating?”

Sherlock turned to him and leant over again. “Because it's Mycroft.”

Dan's confused glance to Molly said that that answer was far from adequate.

“The only person known to have outfoxed Jim Moriarty,” John explained with a head tilt in Mycroft's direction.

“Ooooh,” Dan replied, turning his attention back to Mycroft. “He's Number Two.”

It took John a few seconds to catch the reference, then chuckled.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“Never mind. Popular culture,” John explained.

Dan gave Sherlock a puzzled look, as if the idea of someone who'd never heard of The Prisoner was inconceivable to him.

“Oh, you're a nerd,” Sherlock replied with his usual offhand dismissiveness.

“And proud of it,” Dan fired right back at him.

While this exchange went on, Mycroft had finally noticed them watching him and sent Sherlock an expression equal parts annoyance and inquiry. Sherlock pointedly turned his back on him. John wondered if Sherlock thought that would have any effect on Mycroft other than to draw him over. It was as if Sherlock's gesture was a form of casting his line, and once his prey was hooked, reeling him in. 

Mycroft's amble across the room had a certain inevitability to it. By the time he reached them, his expression had shifted back to the self-satisfied almost-smirk John associated with an approaching attempt to put Sherlock down in front of his friends.

“Miss Hooper, Mr Warner,” Mycroft opened in greeting. John could tell that Dan wanted to ask how Mycroft knew his name when they hadn't been introduced. Apparently, John's previous explanation turned out to be sufficient and Dan just replied, “Hi, Mycroft,” with a twinkle in his eye that John wondered if he should worry about.

Mycroft only blinked once at the spritely reply, but Sherlock snorted in obvious admiration. It appeared that whatever test Sherlock had set up for Dan in his mind, the young man had passed it with flying colours.

“If I might borrow Sherlock for a minute or two,” Mycroft said to Molly, knowing she'd grab any chance to scurry away from his presence, taking her inexplicable boyfriend with her.

Once they'd left, Mycroft turned to Sherlock, either ignoring John or willing to include him in the discussion.

“I need a drink,” Sherlock grumbled and wove his way through the crowd to the kitchen. Mycroft and John trailed after him, like a pair of overworked guardian angels. They watched Sherlock scouring the kitchen; he picked up, examined, muttered over, then replaced five bottles before finding one that met his specifications. John was perplexed; Sherlock never drank wine, but then he noticed it was the only unopened bottle on the table. He wondered: did Sherlock really think his brother had been tampering with the booze during his various sojourns hiding in the kitchen from the rest of the guests?

Sherlock grabbed the corkscrew and fumbled as he tried to stab the cork with it.

As they watched, John was sure Mycroft's worries at Sherlock's behaviour mirrored his, but neither said anything.

After five seconds or so, Mycroft cleared his throat and said, “I do have a bit of news I think you might find of passing interest.”

“Oh?” Sherlock didn't bother looking up from his battle with the corkscrew.

Mycroft watched for a moment or two more then, with a huff, gently prised it out of Sherlock's hand and with a few expert flexes of the wrist, seated it in the cork and drew it out with a satisfying “fwup”. “Our friend from MI5—he's been seconded to a new position.”

Sherlock's expression flicked instantly from distraction to hawkish intent. “Has he now?”

It took John a second to recognise who Mycroft was talking about: Sir Edwin Blythe.

“He's to head up the Brexit Intelligence and International Security negotiating team. He'll be reporting directly to the Brexit minister.”

John barely held back a laugh; as poisoned chalices went, it was a winner.

Sherlock didn't bother with pretence, letting off a loud guffaw that drew looks from the other guests. “Well done, brother. And here I thought you were going to let him get away with it.”

“The murder or the treason?” John asked.

“Both.”

Ignoring their momentary detour, Mycroft replied with a brief, insidious little smile, “The finest plots, like the finest wines, require time to mature to their full potential.”

“Revenge to be supped in its proper season,” Sherlock mused with a wry grin.

“Indeed.”

Then Sherlock seemed to remember he was supposed to be punishing/ignoring/annoying his brother and gave a disdainful sniff. “It's hardly adequate punishment for what he did.”

“You've obviously never met the Brexit minister. Before long, Sir Edwin will be willing to trade the job for a long sentence in a Turkish prison.”

The brothers shared smiles that were only _slightly_ redolent of schadenfreude, and John was glad to see they were able to share a moment of accord, even if it wasn't exactly in what most people would consider the spirit of the season. Or perhaps it was just a particularly Holmesian version of the holiday spirit.

The moment dragged on for a few seconds longer than was comfortable and John decided it was up to him (as always, he noted with a mental huff of annoyance) to prevent it from turning sour again. “So, you off to your parents tomorrow?” he asked Mycroft.

And in response he got Mycroft's “where is that awful smell coming from” expression, then, “Lord no; last year's hijinks have finally convinced them to stop trying to manufacture seasonal sentiment that none of us really feel and they've sworn off family Christmases. They're in Toronto, visiting our uncle.”

“The cross-dresser?”

“That'd be the one,” Sherlock replied, pointedly sniffing the glass of wine he'd finally managed to pour himself.

“So no, neither of us will be required to attend the Holmes celebration of all things gauche,” Mycroft answered in turn.

“I like—” Sherlock started, before Mycroft interrupted him. “They why do you always refuse to go down there?”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” John interjected before the brothers descended into another of their peevish, childish exchanges that always left him with a headache.

“Family—” Mycroft began. 

“They fuck you up, your mum and dad,” Sherlock added, and the brothers shared a terse nod after a momentary stand-off.

John gaped. He'd never heard Sherlock _really_ swear before; Mycroft took it in his stride, which was almost as surprising.

“Philip Larkin, John. One of our nation's finest modern poets,” Mycroft intoned, as if that explained everything.

John was familiar with the quote, and more than familiar with the sentiment in terms of his own family, but he was still startled to be hearing it coming from either of the brothers. “Well, I guess that means you just have to create your own family, then.” John glanced around the flat at their friends, and when he turned back to Sherlock and Mycroft, the three of them shared what John interpreted as silent agreement on the matter. 

They each drifted back into the party and were subsumed into conviviality, food, booze and good conversation for the rest of the evening.

As the clock turned towards midnight, people began to drift off homewards. The Stamfords were first, needing to send a babysitter on her way. Then it was Molly and Dan, who had a long drive to Molly's parents to look forward to in the morning.

To John's surprise, Mycroft and Christina stayed until just before midnight, though John had noticed Mycroft periodically frowning at his phone for the previous half hour. Greg was hovering at Christina's elbow and John couldn't help wondering how that was going to play itself out. 

As Greg and Mycroft bundled themselves up for departure, Christina ambled over to John in the kitchen. She leant over to give him a quick peck on the cheek and before she pulled away whispered, “Thank you for inviting him; it meant the world to him, though he'd never say.” Startled, John couldn't come up with a reply before she stood back and in normal conversational tones made her good-byes. “It was lovely to see you again, John. Have a Merry Christmas.” Then she headed for the door as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. 

At Sherlock's amused expression on seeing her departing with more men than she'd arrived with, she explained, “I'm giving Greg a lift to the Yard, then taking Mycroft home before he turns into a pumpkin.” With one of her airy waves, she headed down the staircase, trailed by an equally amused Mycroft and Greg, leaving John and Sherlock alone.

They each surveyed the damage around them. John knew Sherlock would be perfectly willing to leave the mess for Mrs Hudson to clean up in the morning, but John thought that inexcusable. And the last thing he wanted to do was spend his Christmas Day cleaning up, so he set to work collecting glasses and plates and ferrying them to the kitchens sink.

“What was that about before, giving Dan the fifth degree?” John asked as he reached over Sherlock, now-prone on the sofa, to retrieve a plate.

“It's refreshing to see she's made a good choice.”

“So you approve of him, even though he's not dazzled by you?”

Sherlock caught the teasing, and glanced over. “You don't like him? I don't expect people to be 'dazzled' by me,” he added with a hint of pique.

“Yeah, you do.”

“No, I—” Sherlock almost harrumphed and John laughed, then turned his attention back to the dishes.

“I like Dan. It's just funny you thinking you have a veto over Molly's boyfriends.” 

“Someone needs to screen them; her history proves she possesses no power of discrimination at all. And he seemed to take it in his stride.”

“Yeah, he's a decent bloke. A definite change in the looks department.”

“Yes, it appears Molly's graduated from second-rate versions of me to second-rate versions of you.”

“Very funny.” John paused as a thought struck. “I hope you didn't say that to her.”

“Give me a little credit.”

“Oh, but I do give you _little_ credit, which is why I asked.”

Sherlock just gave him a sideways glare and John chortled his way into the kitchen.

“You never told me about Mike's wife,” Sherlock called across the flat.

“What about Mike's wife?”

“That she looks like she could be his twin sister.”

“Oh yeah, that. Weird, isn't it?”

“One would be willing to lay a fairly large bet that they were actually siblings.”

“Yeah, we used to joke they looked more alike than me and Harry.”

“Is Mike adopted? That could explain it, you know.” Sherlock got the faraway look in his eye that meant he was about to launch into one of his speculative reveries. “Siblings separated at birth, raised apart, meet as adults and fall in love, unaware they're siblings—”

“Sounds like a Greek tragedy.”

“Oh, at least one of them.” Sherlock flung himself into the upright position. “Though it is conceivable they're fully conscious of the fact their relationship is incestuous—”

“It's no such thing, Sherlock—” 

“Mike's always been a dark horse. No one could be as unexceptional as he seems, truly; it must be a front—” 

“Sherlock—”

“Perhaps they belong to a cult that requires sibling marriage, like Polynesian royalty.” 

John tuned out the rest of Sherlock's mindless ramblings on the possible incestuous foundations of the Stamford marriage as he put the empty bottles in the bin. Sherlock's voice droned on in the sitting room, like BBC1 turned down low. It was a comforting rumble in the background and John tried and failed to imagine having this conversation with anyone else he knew. But that was one of the million reasons why they would always be friends: because Sherlock was mad, in all the best ways. And a lot of the worst, John had to admit, but he wouldn't have it any other way. No matter what happened to them, between them, or around them, that wasn't going to change. And after the year they'd all had, this realisation was probably the best Christmas gift John could have received.

~ + ~

the end.


End file.
